Thursday, May 28, 2009

This light fragrance smells delicious for summer - and not a bit like your granny. I almost like it as much as my old standby, Origins Ginger Essence, which I come back to time and time again. The only drawback is that I keep shoving my wrist in people's faces and bellowing, "SMELL IT! SMELL IT!" which they find slightly disconcerting.

Dr. Dre: Defender of good, voice of reason, one hell of a good head of hair.

Dread Pirate P.: (Not pictured; still at large) Good-time girl, inappropriate conversation starter, not so hot at taking out her contacts.

It started like this: P. was not herself. She felt dismal about her career, stressed about her wedding, and slightly disturbed to find that she had the mojo of a beached manatee. Where was the joie? Where was the crackling vitality and light-heartedness of youth? Lost somewhere between the pages of Martha Stewart Weddings and version 8.2 of her resume.

Like a harmonic convergence, they aligned after many years to make sweet, sweet music. The sound of balls-out laughter and German dance tracks could be heard all over Brixton, where the girls gathered for the slumber party to end all slumber parties.

Their motives were pure. They began with a walk through the park, a visit to the garden center. They went to Brixton market and ate cake. They haggled for lamb, made Moroccan mint tea and sipped it in Elly's yard. Their BBQ was a smashing success.

Then things got hectic.

There may have been some drinking. And some dancing. And some flirting. And some snogging. P. was a superlative wingwoman. "Have you met my friend Elly? She's an interpretative dancer!"

There may have been an epic (and slightly bumbling) escape from the den of a hardcore pornographer, whose collection of reading material would make Larry Flint blush. There may have been an admirer called Courageous. There may have been a swollen ankle, a homemade eye patch, and a hangover named Satan.

There may have been three nights out until 5am. And nights in eating cold kebab. There may have been long conversations about love and disappointment and longing and defiance. There may have been face masks.

They barely slept because they loved to be together. And when the Dread Pirate P. limped home, half blind, bruised, and exhausted, she missed her girls terribly.